


holy water cannot help you now

by Dialux



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Gen, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-08
Updated: 2018-04-08
Packaged: 2019-04-20 05:41:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14254215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dialux/pseuds/Dialux
Summary: Ask Sansa at age fifteen what she’d be doing in ten years, and she’d have said something about art.Not… whatever this is.…Ask Arya: she’d have laughed.(She laughs less, now, but- she’s living her dream.)(It’s not so much a dream, now.)





	holy water cannot help you now

**Author's Note:**

> This is me clearing out my tumblr drafts, lol, so no idea when/if this shall be updated. You can find the picset that spawned this idea on my tumblr: dialux.tumblr.com .

Ask Sansa at age fifteen what she’d be doing in ten years, and she’d have said something about art.

Not… whatever this is.

…

Ask Arya: she’d have laughed.

(She laughs less, now, but- she’s living her dream.)

(It’s not so much a dream, now.)

…

“I’ll have some beer,” Arya tells the bartender. She doesn’t look to her side, but she knows that he’s there: Meryn Trant, the man who, years ago, had clapped the cuffs around her father’s wrists. The man who, according to Sansa, had been the one to pull the trigger that began the entire secession movement. 

The beer comes in a relatively neat cup- surprising enough, in a bar as dumpy as this one- but it’s when the bartender tips his head in a nod a hair too slow to be natural that she realizes- something’s  _wrong._

“Shit’s gone south,”she mutters into the fold of her jacket. “Someone’s tipped ‘em off.”

_“You’re sure?”_

“Fuck,” is all Arya replies, succinctly, before she rolls her neck over to check the rest of the bar. 

It’s not empty. That should have been her first clue- it’s not even noon on a weekday; it shouldn’t have even a tenth of this population.  _Fuck,_ Arya thinks, again, remembering the Glock she’d left behind in her car. Sansa’ll kick her ass for being so bloody confident, but-

 _“Listen,”_ her earpiece crackles in her ear.  _“If we don’t neutralize the target before oh-twelve-hundred there’s going to be a… lot of trouble.”_ Arya snorts into the cup. A lot of trouble is putting it lightly.  _“I’ve scouted the place. It’s clean.”_

“Pretty sure you’re wrong,” she says flatly. Then, rising to her feet, “Fifteen armed men in a room that should’ve been empty isn’t  _clean,_ goddammit.”

 _“Fifteen?”_ Sansa sounds alarmed. It turns to resolute too fast for Arya’s comfort.  _“There was a leak.”_

“’s what I’ve been  _saying,”_  Arya spits, before tucking her hair behind her ear and slamming the glass down on Meryn Trant’s bald fucking head.


End file.
